


Caught in the Act

by GreenHouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Bottom Sherlock, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Femdom, Hairbrush Spanking, Humiliation, M/M, Over the Knee, Schoolboys, Scolding, Spanking, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenHouse/pseuds/GreenHouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Matron catches new pupil Sherlock Holmes up to no good with Victor Trevor, she doesn't hesitate to teach the naughty pair a stern lesson - over her knee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Act

Sherlock sat on his school trunk in his new dormitory and stared around the empty beds, trying to deduce what he could about the boys with whom he would be sharing. This one was a chronic masturbator - deep scratches in the freshly varnished floor showed where the bed rocked backwards and forwards nightly. This one used too much hair gel and had bad acne, judging by the state of his pillow case. And this one… He frowned. The bed was neatly made, the blanket tight as a drum, the pillow square, giving away nothing. But the bedside table was positioned awkwardly at a slant.

He pushed it to one side. The screws in one on the floorboards seemed to be missing. A long ruler lay on the windowsill above it. He used it to lever the loose board upwards. Beneath it, he struck gold – someone’s secret stash. There were a couple of dog-eared magazines, with pictures of pouting women on the front; which didn’t really interest him, and half opened packet of Marlborough Lights, which did – he pocketed one for later. Beneath these he found a fake ID, with a photo so blurred as to be indistinguishable, a tobacco tin, containing a packet of Rizlas, shreds of rolling tobacco and a very strong scent of cannabis, a couple of packets of condoms and at the very bottom of the pile a mens' fitness magazine.

He was flicking though this thoughtfully when he heard slow footsteps along the long corridor which ran between the dormitories. He replaced his finds, repositioned the floor board and table and was just rising to his feet, when a tousled head poked around the door.

“What you doing?”

“Just knocked this ruler off the window sill,” Sherlock said. He replaced it and turned to face the newcomer. “Sherlock Holmes. It's my first day.”

“Oh,” the newcomer studied him for a moment then stuck out his hand. “Victor Trevor.”

They shook hands. Trevor was about Sherlock’s age, shorter but broad in the shoulder and deep in the chest, with unruly hair and freckles across his nose. His grip was firm. Faint nicotine stains around his fingernails suggested this was the owner of the secret stash.

Formalities over, Victor walked stiff legged into the room and threw himself face first onto the neatly made bed with a groan.

“Are you all right?”

“My arse stings. Forster just gave me a right drubbing for talking in class.”

Who’s Forster?”

“Games master. He’s all right, but he doesn’t take any messing about. He kept me back after class and gave me half a dozen over the pommel horse. I thought my teeth were going to fall out.”

Sherlock frowned at the unfamiliar words. “Half a dozen what?”

Victor rolled over with a wince. “What do you think?”

“Smacked?” said Sherlock. The very idea made him shiver with embarrassment.

Victor laughed, but not unkindly. “Gym shoe,” he said. “Which school were you at before you came here?”

“I wasn’t,” said Sherlock. “I had a tutor.”

“Boarding school’s going to be a treat for you, then,” said Victor cryptically. “They’re big on the old fashioned ways here. Do you want to see? It’s really red.”

Sherlock swallowed. “All right.”

Victor rolled to his feet and dropped his trousers and his underwear to his knees, displaying himself without shame. Sherlock caught a brief unexpected glimpse of his cock, dark red and thick, a mass of curls at its base. Then Victor turned to show off his marks. He had a lean muscular behind, currently bright red and sore looking. When Sherlock bent closer he could make out the mark of the gym shoe soles, their outline clearly imprinted. Victor looked over his shoulder to inspect the damage.

“Forster’s a proper bastard for getting you right at the top of the thigh,” he said without rancour.

“Is that worse?”

“It’s the _worst_ ,” said Victor, with the expert air of one who had been on the receiving end of many beatings. “Stings like nothing else.”

“Can I touch them?”

“If you like,” said Victor. His tone was casual, but he watched Sherlock with interest.

Sherlock cupped his hand on the rosy skin feeling the throb of blood beneath the surface. The skin was hot, pulsing beneath his palm. He thought of the pictures in the men’s fitness magazine. Inside his trousers his cock, a treacherous organ that had recently developed a mind of its own, twitched and started to swell. He moved his hand to the other buttock to compare the sensations.

“It helps if you rub it,” said Victor.

“What do you boys think you’re doing?”

A woman stood at the dormitory door, almost filling it. She was in her mid-fifties, tall and broad with close-cropped iron grey hair. She wore a crisp white tunic, black tights and sensible shoes with rubber soles. A pile of clean towels rested in her brawny red forearms.

They froze, caught in the act – Victor with his trousers around his knees Sherlock with his hand still resting on his arse. He blushed beet red, and snatched his hand away.

“Trousers up, Victor,” she said and dropped the towels on one of the beds. Close to, she was a giantess. Sherlock was well on his way to six foot but she towered above him like a mountain.

“We were just-” Victor began, but she shook her head cutting him off.

"I think we all know what you were doing. The pair of you were playing a very naughty game, weren't you? ”

Sherlock felt his face turn scarlet. He wanted to protest, but his cock was stiff in his trousers, the truth of her words obvious to anyone who had eyes.

 “Weren’t you?” she said.

“Yes, Matron,” said Victor.

"Yes, Matron,” Sherlock repeated.

She turned her gaze onto him. Her eyes were sharp and dark, missing little. “And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes. It’s my first day.”

“ _Not_ an auspicious start, Sherlock. You can both report to my room this evening after getting ready for bed,” she said and left the room before he could reply, treading silently on her rubber soles with a grace surprising for a woman of her bulk.

“Shit,” said Victor, when she had gone, taking care to keep his voice low. “That’s torn it.”

“What-“ Sherlock began but Victor shook his head.

“Never mind now, let’s go otherwise we’ll be late for prep too and then there really will be hell to pay.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Sherlock stood barefoot in his pyjamas in the dormitory, an unpleasant churning in his stomach.

“Ready?” said Victor, returning from the bathroom.

Sherlock nodded. He picked up his dressing gown but Victor shook his head.

“No point.”

“Why, what’s going to happen?” said Sherlock, though he had a creeping feeling he might already know.

Victor shrugged unhappily. “Just do what what you're told,” he said, “otherwise it just gets worse. In the main school, the Headmaster likes to think he's in charge, but everyone knows that up here it's Matron's rules.”

The Matron’s station was to one end of the dormitory corridor, by the main stair well. Heads popped out of the bedroom doors as they passed. News of their appointment had somehow spread. The audience did little to quiet Sherlock’s unsettled feelings.

No noise came from the station but light spilled beneath the closed door. Victor rapped on it once. After a moment it swung open. The Matron’s massive frame filled the doorway blocking the light.

“What are you boys doing out of bed?”

“It’s Victor and Sherlock, Matron. You told us to come and see you.”

“Oh yes,” she said unsmiling. “The lovebirds. I’ve been waiting for you. In you go.”

The station was a small bare room which smelled strongly of disinfectant. It contained a sink, with a locked medicine cabinet above, and a table and chair for the matron on duty to complete any paperwork. At present the table was empty except for a silent radio and a large black leather handbag. The Matron shut the door and leant against it, blocking the only means of escape. She seemed even taller this evening and Sherlock barefoot, in his pyjamas, inwardly quailed. She examined them for a moment and then spoke.

“What are the rules about touching beneath the waist, Victor?”

“It’s forbidden, Matron.”

“Strictly forbidden,” she said, “and very naughty.” She turned her unforgiving attention onto Sherlock. “What happens to naughty boys in my dormitory, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Surely they were too old to be spoken to like this? The Matron’s eye’s snapped, mistaking his silence for insolence.

After a moment, Victor spoke up. “Please Matron, Sherlock is new. He doesn’t-”

She cut through his words impatiently. “Well then you tell me, Victor. What happens to naughty boys?”

Victor flushed. A strange change had come over him now they were in the Matron’s domain. He no longer looked like the unruly young man Sherlock had met that afternoon but a subdued and increasingly chastened school boy. The words, when he said them, had the ring of a familiar ritual. “They get their bottoms smacked, Matron.”

Matron nodded and turned back Sherlock. “I asked you a question, Sherlock. You've been a naughty boy. What do you think will happen to you?”

Sherlock wanted to shout and stamp his feet and say nothing should happen – that it was none of her business what he did, and she couldn't speak to him like this. But he didn't quite dare. Not when she looked so stern and angry. But nor could he bring himself to say what she wanted him to say: it was too humiliating. He shrugged instead – a small defiance but all he could manage.

“I'm waiting, Sherlock. Victor just told you that in my dormitory, naughty boys get their bottoms smacked. So what do you think is going to happen now?”

Sherlock's face, already red, flushed still redder and hotter. She was going to make him say it. And the longer he resisted, the longer it would drag out. It seemed he had no choice, but the shame was overwhelming. “You're going to spank me.”

The words were barely whispered, and spoken so quickly they ran into each other but still, he had said them. His face burned.

“That's right, Sherlock. And where do you think I am going to smack you?”

An image of Victor’s hot, red behind swum before his eyes. The answer seemed obvious. “On my bottom?”

“That's right, Sherlock. And do you think your pyjamas bottoms will be up or down?”

His stomach dropped. Surely she didn’t mean to- Victor was staring straight ahead but Sherlock saw his chin dip in the slightest nod. Apparently she did. “Down,” he whispered through dry lips.

“Yes they will. Now I want you to tell me what's going to happen, and why.”

“You'regoingtosmackmebecauseIwasnaughty.”

“Are you trying to annoy me, Sherlock? Because you're succeeding. Victor – tell Sherlock what's going to happen to you and why.”

Victor blushed – even he seemed to be embarrassed by this routine, no matter how often he had been through it. “You're going to smack me on my bare bottom because I've been a naughty boy.”

“That's right, Victor. I'm going to smack your bare bottom because you've been a naughty little boy. Now, Sherlock – I'd like you to tell me what's going to happen to you and why. And I advise you not to provoke me further.”

She was looming over him, arms crossed. Sherlock's last reserve of courage fled, and along with it the last shreds of his pride.

“You're going to smack my bottom...”

“Bare bottom...”

“Bare bot-”

“From the beginning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook with anger and humiliation. “You're going to smack my bare bottom because I've been a naughty boy.”

“Naughty _little_ boy, Sherlock.”

“Naughty little...”

“No. From the beginning.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He wished he was dead. He wished Matron was dead. He wished the whole world would end. But since the world stubbornly kept on spinning and humiliation continued to pile on top of humiliation, he wanted this to be over.

“You're going to smack my bare bottom because I've been a naughty little boy.”

He opened his eyes. Tears of shame stung in them, blurring his vision.

Matron nodded and unfolded her arms. “That's right. But you haven't just been naughty. You've been very naughty. Touching each other where you're not supposed to is very naughty. And that's why I'm not just going to smack your bare bottoms– I'm going to smack them with this.”

She reached into the bag on the table and retrieved a hairbrush. It was a rather ordinary looking item, round-backed and made of some dark wood, but the sight of it made Victor make an unhappy noise; he was obviously unpleasantly familiar with this instrument. Sherlock's bottom tingled. He had never even been hand spanked. He was not looking forward to finding out how much worse it was to be spanked with an implement– especially one which someone as hardy as Victor seemed to fear so much.

Matron turned the chair away from the table to face the room. She sat and patted the back of the hairbrush against her left palm. It made a disturbingly crisp smacking sound. Was it Sherlock's imagination, or was it growing? It hadn't looked so big and heavy a moment ago. He thought he might have whimpered. Was he going to be first? Please let Victor be first, please, please, please....

"Come here, Victor. Pyjamas down."

Sherlock let out a long, relieved breath. Then he felt a rush of shame. Victor had been friendly, spoken up for him and he’d already been beaten once that day. Sherlock should have volunteered to go first. He watched, wracked with guilt, as Victor dropped his trousers and bent bare-bottom-up across Matron’s lap. She pushed his pyjama top out of the way, revealing cheeks that weren't exactly red, but were definitely still dark pink from the gym shoe. The hairbrush on top of that. The very thought made Sherlock's bottom clench.

Matron lifted her right foot onto its toes. The effect was to elevate Victor's bottom into the perfect spanking position. She placed the flat of the brush back against his right cheek. Once again, Sherlock heard a muffled whimper – but this time, the sound was coming from Victor, sprawled helplessly across her lap.

The brush was withdrawn. Victor's buttocks squeezed tight together in anticipation. Sherlock watched in a haze of fear; knowing he would soon be in the same ignominious and highly vulnerable position – waiting to be spanked as though he was a little boy. The only difference was that his bottom was not yet as pink as Victor's – though they would no doubt both end up a hot, dark red by the time Matron had finished with them. He watched the hairbrush descend, hard and fast, to smack the crest of Victor's right cheek.

Victor yelped. A white oval blossomed where the brush had landed, and then flushed a deep, angry red. It was still getting darker when the brush smacked down again – to land on exactly the same spot. This time, Victor cried out in earnest but protests only seemed to spur Matron on. The brush landed on the same spot a third time, eliciting still louder wailing from the repentant young man across her lap. Then the brush moved to the left cheek and she gave it the same treatment; three hard, sharp smacks on the same spot, right on the crown of his bottom. Victor kicked, his legs flying higher every time the brush landed – but he didn't try to put back a hand or otherwise interrupt the rhythm of his punishment.

Sherlock stared, riveted. Victor’s bottom looked horribly red and sore. And he was going to get the same treatment any second now. Blood rushed into his cock and it twitched upright– not out of excitement, but fear. Victor was yelling in earnest. The hairbrush must really sting. And Sherlock was next. Could he take a beating like that? It didn't bear thinking ab-

What was she doing? Matron wasn't putting the brush down or letting Victor off her lap. She was moving the hairbrush back to Victor's already well-punished right cheek. She couldn't mean to give him any more, surely? Apparently, she could. Not only that, she was lining the brush up against the top of Victor’s leg, where cheek merged into thigh. Sherlock gulped remembering Victor’s comments about the sensitivity of that particular part of the anatomy. Terror gave way to full-blown panic. He took a small step backwards. Matron glanced at him, rooting him to the spot. He was torn between the desperate need to escape and fear of the consequences if – when – he was caught. His veins pulsed with the fear-and-flight adrenaline coursing uselessly through him.

Then the phone rang, loud and insistent from the corridor. Matron paused, hairbrush in the air, and glanced at the door. Then she scowled and peppered Victor’s the top of Victor’s thighs with a fusillade of sharp smack before she tipped him unceremoniously from her lap. Victor's mouth opened into an 'O' of astonished suffering. She didn't stay to watch him, nor reach for Sherlock to put him across her knee. She was on her way into the hall to answer the telephone.

Victor said nothing; too busy jumping up and down, hands reaching behind to rub his behind in a futile attempt to alleviate what must be an appalling sting. Sherlock watched and felt sorry for him – but even sorrier for himself. Any second now, Matron would be back and it would be his turn. And when she came back, she was going to do the same to Sherlock.

The phone stopped ringing. He heard a brief exchange of words, and then Matron's head appeared around the door. “Victor, stand in the corner. Sherlock, don't move an inch! I'll be back in a moment.”

Victor turned and made his way to the corner, still rubbing furiously at his dark red bottom. The red ovals at the top of his thigh were still darkening to their full colour. Sherlock swallowed, feeling ill with the anticipation of the pain to come. It was almost worse, having his spanking delayed. Except that it wasn't, because actually getting spanked was even worse. Or maybe not. Maybe waiting for it was worse. No. Getting it. No, Waiting. Getting it.

Waiting...

Matron returned to the room, closed the door and sat down. She fixed Sherlock with a gimlet stare.

“Am I take it, you’ve not done this before?”

He shook his head dumbly.

“Come here.” She took Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him impatiently to stand between her knees. “Hands on your head.”

Now the moment had arrived, he had no fight left in him. He stood there, hands on head while Matron reached out and peeled his pyjamas down. His bottom was a little more plump and round than Victor’s, and the bottoms were tight. She eased them past his full cheeks, peeled them down his thighs and only when the shorts reached his knees was she able to yank them all the way down to his ankles. She nodded with satisfaction at a job well done, then rolled his top upwards until it was bunched up under his armpits. He was bare from his ankles to his nipples. He looked down. It was humiliating to see his body so pale, naked and exposed. His cock had shrunk and his balls felt as if they were trying to retreat into his body.

He glanced up, looking for signs of softening on Matron's face, but seeing only grim determination. Maybe if she felt sorry for him.... He began to snivel, peeking at her through a half-closed eye, but Matron was not convinced by his tears, crocodile or otherwise. She was hitching up her skirt of her tunic. He didn't understand why, until she placed him between her legs and put a hand on his back, pushing him forwards. He bent until he fell forward over her left leg. Her right leg moved swiftly to trap both of his, and he understood the reason for the hitched skirt. She was as strong as she looked. He was helpless now, his bare bottom exposed, his hands braced on the floor, his toes unable to gain purchase and his knees a frustrating few inches above the floor. Only his arms were any use, and all they could do was steady him or, if he lost control and could no longer co-operate in his spanking, reach back and try to cover his bottom. But Matron was a practised disciplinarian and wise to such tricks.

"Hands, Sherlock."

He mumbled something incoherent – then yelped as Matron landed a crisp smack on his defenceless backside. It stung, but there was nothing he could do except co-operate and hope for some small measure of mercy. He reached behind and found his wrists pinned to the small of his back. Now he truly was completely helpless, his nose inches from the carpet, his bottom presented for punishment.

A wave of panic overwhelmed him. He froze. The hard, cold back of the hairbrush was resting on his right cheek. His stomach clenched with cold terror; terror that grew still worse when the brush was withdrawn. He began to babble, careless of Victor standing in the corner or any of the boys who might overhear. Begging and pleading as though his life depended on it.

“No....Please, Matron. Please. I'm sorry. Please-”

He wasn’t given a chance to finish. The hairbrush landed with a loud crack, bang in the centre of his right buttock. For a second he felt nothing, then searing heat blazed across his behind turning his bottom hot and red, and he kicked out in shock.

“You’re going to be very sorry indeed by the time I’ve finished with you, Sherlock, if you don’t behave. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Matron.”

There was nothing he could do but wait fearfully for the next painful slap to arrive. His pleas gave way to yelping as the brush spanked the same burning spot on his right cheek over and over again, turning it from hot to molten to incandescent. Each and every smack seared its message of obedience into his burning right cheek. It was like being branded. He yelped and begged, but it made no difference. He squirmed and wriggled, but the evil brush found its target and added yet more heat to the furnace already burning there.

Then Matron switched sides, his left cheek receiving exactly the same stern treatment. His yells rose in pitch and volume as Matron lit a fire to match the one burning on his right cheek. And then she stopped. Sherlock continued his squirming and howling. The pain hadn't stopped because the spanking was over. It was still getting worse.

Except it wasn't over. Matron was only gathering herself before the finale. There was no phone call to interrupt her this time, but she had every intention of dealing with Sherlock exactly as she had dealt with the unfortunate Victor. She peppered the tops of his thighs with a fusillade of smacks. Victor had been right. It hurt so much Sherlock couldn't even get breath to howl. He gasped instead, unable to believe the enormity of the pain. It was so large, it filled his whole world.

And then, finally, it truly was over. He was released and pulled to his feet. He danced around the room, hands desperately rubbing at his burning bottom, his motions were entirely unimpeded by his pyjama bottoms, which he had long since kicked off. He danced and rubbed not because it made any difference, but because not doing so was simply impossible. Matron watched with her arms folded across her bosom and a satisfied expression on her face.

“Trousers on and to bed with the pair of you,” she said eventually, “and don’t let me catch you doing anything like that again.” And with that she evicted them from the room, without a second glance.

It was a sore and chastised pair who limped down the darkened corridor. Lights out had been called and Sherlock was glad for that one small mercy to hide his blushes. His bottom blazed red hot, but perhaps even worse was the insult to his pride - the sheer humiliation of  having had his trousers taken down and being bent over Matron's lap, while he had cried and begged for her to stop. He wondered what Victor must think of him. He had never yet had a friend, and now, when it seemed he might have met one, he had disgraced himself on his very first day.

“When does it stop hurting?” he muttered when they reached the door of their room.

“Give it a couple of days,” said Victor. “I always reckon the hairbrush is as bad as it gets, but after a while the heat kind of dulls to a glow. It’s not so bad then.”

Sherlock nodded heavily. He would believe it when it happened.

Victor however, seemed to be regaining his customary high spirits now their ordeal was over. “Night Sherlock,” he said. His teeth flashed in the dimness. “Tomorrow if you like, you can show me how red your bum is!”


End file.
